Late On A Day Poem by Ann Lusch

Late on a day
between the feast of All Souls
and the 80th birthday of
one of those souls
(Dad) ,
I rake brown, curled up leaves
on my front lawn.
Then my body rests.
(Though there is still
work to do,
I know) .
I sit on the concrete porch
to see, among other things,
our tree,
the one planted at a time
when our son
could barely walk.

Your branches are arms
raised exultantly heavenward;
you seem not to notice your near nakedness,
or that only tatters remain, near the top,
of the glory of your former garment,
once green, once gold.
You know that you are beautiful still,
though not in the way of the
neighbor’s resplendent tree that is
lush with a hue, an orange,
I’ve never quite seen before.
I notice the houses across the street,
dark, stark against the softhearted glow of sunset.
High up is the hazy half moon,
brightly waxing its way
towards fullness.

And these losses of mine,
the ones lately, keenly felt?
The friendship now
waning,
the son soon
leaving,
the father both
missing and missed
since long before you came to be,
lovely tree?
These feel softened,
cushioned in air curiously warm for
November.
My soul rests, too.
(Though there is still
mourning to do,
I think) .
I take note:
there is still beauty;
there is yet peace;
there is, yes,
grace.

(2008)

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